


you came back again (and again)

by bookstvnerdlove



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/bookstvnerdlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their reunion doesn't initially go as planned, it's like they're playing a game of avoidance. Until one day, proximity happens and they find their way together.</p><p>Basically, reunion smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you came back again (and again)

They’ve been in the safe zone for weeks before Beth catches sight of him again. She’s seen Daryl, of course, but she hasn’t been close enough to really _see_ him. Ever since she found him (again) after losing him (again), it’s been a dance of flickering eyes and interrupted glances. Every time their eyes meet, he turns away or she turns away, her heart constricts, and she can’t catch a glimpse of that man she remembers.

Sometimes, when she would lie in the hospital bed, late at night and listening to the empty echoes of the abandoned city, she would remember his eyes and the way they looked at her as if he could see every piece of her soul.

( _So you do still think there are good people around. What changed your mind?_

 _You know._ )

.

She can still feel the trace of taint across her body as she remembers the way she had to hold her body still, waiting until the right moment to smash the bottle over _his_ head. When she took her first shower here in the town, her first since the prison, she wishes it could be scalding hot. Hot enough to burn away the memories, to purify her skin.

Instead she makes do as she runs her hands along her body, pressing her dips and swells, and tracing her skin with light fingertips. She scrubs her skin, soap gliding along, down her body, until the taint swirls around the drain, disappearing.

.

She remembers one dream that she had, back in the early days before her thoughts were consumed with escape, back before she was running, running, running, on her way towards him and them and _family._ She dreamed of his hands, of the way that he traces the skin at his jaw, trailing up towards his lips, and back down again. She dreamed of the way he did this while he watched her play the piano, as if the music touched him through those hands, as if he was savoring _her._

She dreamed of his hands touching her skin just as gently, of his hands cupping her face, of his thumbs tracing patterns on her cheeks, moving down until they reached the collar of her shirt. In her dream, her skin ached to be touched like this, the careful exploration of her collarbone, of his hands sliding under her shirt until they reached her threadbare bra. She dreamed of his hands tracing around her belly button and lower, lower, until his hot breath tickled her skin.

She woke flushed and aching and wishing that she could retrace his steps with her own hands, but all at once it hit her, how _unsafe_ she is, how _unfree_ she is. So she brushed her hair back into a ponytail and splashed cool water on her face and trailed behind the doctor all day until she could escape to the roof. She watched the sun go down – as long as they would let her stay there – until it reached the roof of the lowest buildings, crumbled slabs of brick and concrete.

She hoped he was still alive. She hoped that he found a better place than her.

(Then she never thought of him again.)

.

When she sees Daryl again, almost running straight into his strong chest, her head turned back, trying to shake the feeling that she’s being _watched._ When she sees him, she knows that the awkwardness of their first meeting was just a cover for the heat the flashes in his eyes before it disappears just as rapidly. When her body barrels into his, she realizes – at the spark that travels along her skin from such an innocent touch – that she’s been holding _herself_ back.

And he let her do it. He looked at her, when she first arrived, as if she was a ghost.

_(You were dead._

_I survived.)_

.

She’s been so self-contained, watchful and waiting, for so long that when she finally feels free, she comes at him in a wild, frenzied rush. It builds within for weeks, this jumpy emptiness deep in her belly, tying her stomach in knots. She’s been on watch, waiting for the moment where those in charge reveal themselves the same way that all of the others had. It’s not happening though, and sometimes she wonders if she’s just _wrong_ about whatever the sensation is that’s been growing deep within.

After running into Daryl, after realizing just how much _feeling_ she had closed off, she launches herself at him, pushing him against the nearest wall. She looks at him and, when he turns his head to break eye contact, she says, “No.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough that he is startled and – his hands having an awkward grip on her shoulders – he falls back into the concrete wall. Her body presses against his gently because now that he’s close, now that his hands are on her again, she remembers the way she felt when she woke up from her dream. The way her limbs felt heavy and aching all over.

She flicks her eyes down to his lips where they are pressed together, and she can feel the way his breath builds in his chest, unable to relax and let go. She should have known that it would be up to her to make her move, that he would give her space and not assume that she wanted anything to do with him.

(He was the one who lost her after all.)

(But she doesn’t think about him that way at all.)

Her legs stretch as she raises to her toes, sliding her hands along his chest until they reach his neck, his face, and his muscles relax at her touch. She wants to press her lips to his, but she’s afraid of going that far without him _with_ her. So she catches his eyes again and watches as his lids flicker and close, leaning his head back to the concrete wall.

The pulse beats at his throat and she watches as it rises and falls, then she reaches and presses her lips to that spot. She feels the steady thump against her lips, she leans in to inhale his scent as she presses harder and is rewarded by an increase in the fluttering against her lips.

His hands, which had been gripping her shoulders for purchase begin to move, slowly making their way down her back until they reach her hips and he pulls her body closer to his with a tug of fingers at her belt loops, digging as far into her as they can go. His fingers curl into the denim as his chin nudges at her forehead.

It’s not hard for him to meet her eyes now, and it’s not hard for him to eye her lips until a blush forms at her cheeks and she’s ready, she’s so ready for his to meet hers, for her to feel that tingle spread through her body.

Instead he says, “Not here.”

.

When they’re in his room – he doesn’t have to share, which she finds eminently unfair, but he’s been here longer and he tracks and hunts and she’s still finding her place – she tears at his clothes and he at hers until they’re both stripped bare. Their clothes joined together in a tangled heap on the floor. They’re on his bed, facing each other and, though they’ve been in a rush, she takes a moment to watch the way his muscles flex with each movement, and the way he keeps himself facing her so she doesn’t see his back.

(She knows the scars are there, she’s seen glimpses of them before, but she doesn’t push him to show her more.)

She’s been aching and ready since she pushed him against the wall outside, she can feel herself wet and swollen and body clenching at his every touch. He can’t seem to stop touching her – just as she’d dreamed he would – with gentle tracing along her skin and his lips trailing after. Her nipples tighten as he blows soft puffs of air against her before taking them into his mouth. Her hands wander along the tight muscles of his arms, down his torso, and find him, hot silky skin as ready as hers.

He presses her down into the mattress, pushing aside the pillows, threading their fingers together and pushing her arms above her head. Their faces are so close together and she can feel his heart against her chest. It’s then that he finally kisses her, his lips brushing against hers, almost tentatively, until she responds with a flick of her tongue against his lips. They cling together for seconds, minutes, until he releases her hands and his cup her cheeks as her legs wrap around his waist and her hands reach for his hips, digging her fingers into his skin as his hips move against her.

Every touch sends her closer to the edge and they’ve barely begun, so she takes what leverage she can to flip their bodies. He groans against her lips, but allows the movement until she’s hovering over his body and she sees the wreckage that her hands have made of his hair and the way his eyes are focused solely on her – her lips, her body, her entire being.

Her heart skips a beat as she leans down to press a soft kiss to that pulse at the base of his throat and she lets her hands wander. His skin is hot and flushed – as she’s sure hers is – and his hips press up at every touch of hand to body – as she follows his torso down until she wraps her hand around him.

His head rolls back into the mattress at her touch and she feels a burst of power. He groans with each stroke of her hand and she realizes that he’s as ready as her. She may not have had much experience (two now-dead boyfriends) but she knows enough to say that there will be plenty of time to explore later, to wrap her lips around him until he cries her name, for him to press his mouth to her until all she can do is gasp and writhe as she grips the sheets.

Right now she craves the sensation of him inside her, her breasts crushed against his chest and his arms wrapped around her. They’re safe and alive and she never wants to let go.


End file.
